


Orange Flame at the Mountain's Heart

by Zdenka



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Pining, Sesquidrabble Sequence, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Writing rainbow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 05:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20942672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/pseuds/Zdenka
Summary: Sometimes it's easier to climb a mountain six times than tell your friend that you love him.





	Orange Flame at the Mountain's Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Burning_Nightingale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/gifts).

> Apparently a sesquidrabble is the name for a 150-word ficlet? I was originally aiming for a drabble sequence, but the first one I wrote came out at 150 words and I just went with it.

“What is this?” Narvi asked.

Celebrimbor tilted his engraving towards Narvi. “A mountain.”

“What mountain?”

“Why, any mountain . . .”

“No,” said Narvi firmly. “If it is any mountain, then it is no mountain at all. Come with me tomorrow, and I will show you.”

They stood together at the foot of the Misty Mountains, looking up toward the snow-crowned peaks. “See them,” Narvi said quietly. “Know them and learn them, with your eyes and your hands.” He raised his hand as if touching the slopes, drawing their shape in the air before him with intent concentration.

Celebrimbor looked thoughtful, and once more lifted his eyes to the mountains.

~

“What is this?” Narvi asked again. And this time he smiled. “I do not know these mountains, but I know they are real.”

“They were,” Celebrimbor said, “but they are no longer. These are the mountains that guarded the northern marches of Himlad . . .”

* * *

Celebrimbor set himself to considering mountains. When he had time, he climbed the rocky slopes and tried to see them as Narvi did. He hiked the Redhorn Pass backwards and forwards, until he was nearly buried in snow by a sudden blizzard. He drew Celebdil, Caradhras, and Fanuidhol from afar and close up, filling pages of sketchbooks. Narvi loved them, he told himself, these rocks, these peaks; as Celebrimbor loved the lost green plain of Himlad and the walls of Ost-in-Edhil built with his own hands.

Yet when he closed his eyes, it was not the mountain’s slopes he saw, but the broad sturdy shape of Narvi’s shoulders, the way the forge-fire brought out red glints in the brown curls of his hair and beard, his hands strong and confident at holding hammer and chisel. Whatever he gave Narvi, it had to be good enough, made well and without flaws.

* * *

The only thing that could distract Narvi from Celebrimbor’s words was Celebrimbor’s self. It was not enough that Celebrimbor showed a beardless face to the world, but when he was working in the forge, he often stripped to the waist without a second thought. Narvi tugged at his own beard so he would not be tempted to reach out and trace the patterns that the forge-light cast on Celebrimbor’s skin.

Experimentally, Narvi included phrases from love poetry when he taught Celebrimbor Dwarvish words: endearments, metaphors for a lover’s beauty or hinting at suppressed longing. Celebrimbor listened eagerly to the poetry, questioned him about the grammar, but never understood that the endearments or praises might be meant for himself.

There was more than one road through a mountain, Narvi told himself firmly. Someday there would be the right time—the right words—and Narvi would find the right way to ask.

* * *

Words were not something to be careless with. Words were drawn swords glittering under torchlight in Tirion, charred hulls bobbing in the waves, blood on the snow in Doriath. Words had severed his father and his mother, his father and himself, more sharply than any blade. Celebrimbor did not trust his own tongue. But he trusted his hands and his skill; he would craft something for Narvi, and let the work he made speak for him.

It must be a gift that could match Narvi’s laughter, the companionable warmth of his shoulder when they sat together, the words of Khuzdul that Narvi imparted like treasures.

He tried and discarded several different designs. Finally he settled on a belt, square tiles of silver linked together, each engraved with views of the mountain peaks from different angles. He murmured the Dwarvish names to himself: Barazinbar, Zirak-zigil, Bundushathûr, the mountains of Narvi’s home.

* * *

Celebrimbor had acquired some sweet and strong Elvish wine from some land to the east called Dorwinion. They were both drunk and pleasantly hazy, when Celebrimbor let his head fall onto Narvi’s shoulder. “I like you, Narvi,” he said unexpectedly.

“That’s good,” Narvi said, distracted by Celebrimbor’s hair falling against his face.

Before Narvi realized what he was doing, Celebrimbor caught one of his hands and pressed a kiss to his palm. “I like your hands,” he murmured. Narvi went still. Celebrimbor kissed his palm again, then his wrist, his lips warm and eager. He was holding Narvi’s hand so carefully, so gently.

Narvi drew a breath—to say what, he did not know. Celebrimbor let his hand fall and settled against Narvi with a sigh. His eyes closed.

“Celebrimbor?”

He was soundly asleep. Narvi wrapped an arm around Celebrimbor’s shoulders to steady him, his heart full of frustrated longing.


End file.
